


Constants

by avxry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Fluff, Gardening, M/M, Teenlock, another universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-09 21:55:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1999332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avxry/pseuds/avxry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is in desperate need of money. The Holmes family is in desperate need of a gardener. John is given the job, and not long after he begins, he thinks the family is a bit odd, but there is something about Sherlock is different from the rest of them. Sherlock may be worth Mycroft's abductions and Mummy Holmes' assumptions about their relationship. He may even be worth putting some truth to those assumptions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

John stares up at the obnoxiously large house. But the word “house” doesn’t seem to cover it. He is thinking that maybe he should call it a mansion or a manor. He chooses manor – The Holmes Manor, capitalized, because this is building that deserves a capitalized name. He briefly wonders how it is possible for a house – manor – to be intimidating. The windows look a bit like eyes, looking down on him. He shakes the feeling and walks up the white stones steps.

The doors – there are two of them – are a shiny brown wood with bronze coffee-mug handles. John debates over knocking or ringing the doorbell. He decides that in a house this big, he might not be heard if he knocks, so he presses the button for the bell. He almost expects the sound to be cryptic and low, like in haunted house movies. He reminds himself that this is neither a movie nor a haunted house. The doorbell is perfectly normal.

After just a moment, a smiling woman opens the door. She has ginger colored hair that is graying at the roots, but it doesn’t take the life out of her face. Her eyes are gray-colored and piercing yet somehow kind.

“You must be John Watson!” she says happily.

“Yes, ma’am,” John replies, always polite. He smiles back.

“Come in, come in!” The woman – presumably Mrs. Holmes – leads him down a hallway to the left. There is also a short hallway to the right, leading into a room with a very pretty brick fireplace, two chairs facing it. John does not follow this hallway. He follows Mrs. Holmes.

The air inside is cool, and the feeling John gets when he walks in is rather comforting, much different than what he expected of the bleach-white exterior. The floor is a cherry-looking wood, a deep red carpet with golden designs on the edges running straight through the middle. The walls are white, but not blindingly so. John finds himself more at ease.

He is carrying his suitcase in his left hand, a backpack on his right shoulder, as he continues to follow Mrs. Holmes. The hallway is as short as the one on the right, but it takes a turn to go deeper into the house, the red carpet stopping. The turn does not take them into another hallway, but into what appears to be a sitting room. There is a rather fashionable flat-screen television on the far end, one leather recliner facing it, a leather couch the same color against the left wall. There is a large rug in the center of the floor over the wood, matching the one in the hallway. A table separates the couch and the recliner, and a matching table was centered on the rug, larger than its twin.

John notes that he should not judge houses from the outside anymore. He rather likes the inside. It’s not at all intimidating.

“This is the living room,” Mrs. Holmes says, her hands spread out in front of her as if she is a tour guide. “We don’t really use this room much . . . The boys don’t really like watching telly, Isaiah spends most of his time in the study, and I do a bit of experimenting in the kitchen as a hobby. Not much time for it.”

John is curious as to what Mr. Holmes does in the study, but he is neither impolite nor stupid, and keeps his mouth shut. He follows Mrs. Holmes into the next room, to the right. This looks to be the dining room. The table is fairly long, wooden, and covered in delicate-looking dishes sitting on white cloths. A very pretty vase of flowers sits in the middle, and on the far end of the room, a window takes up the majority of the wall. It is a very beautiful room overall.

“Dining room,” Mrs. Holmes says. “We _try_ to get the family together to eat here every night. We’re successful approximately eighty-seven percent of the time.”

John wonders if she is making a joke or if she actually calculates it. He decides that she calculates it when she doesn’t look back at him with a smile. He secretly hopes this isn’t a family of pure geniuses. John is not stupid, but he is not brilliant. He shakes the thought from his head. It is highly unlikely. If he were more comfortable around Mrs. Holmes, he would ask her the probability of such a notion.

She points to a door in the middle of the wall to the right. “This is one of the bathrooms.” John nods to show that he heard her. They continue.

Walking straight through, hugging the wall to the right of them, John finds that they made a full circle, and he can now see into the room that he saw from the front door. Mrs. Holmes tells him that is the den, and he finds that he likes that one most so far. The lighting is fuzzy from a standing lamp in the far right corner. He would very much like to sit there and read one of his books. He doesn’t mention this.

Mrs. Holmes leads him just a bit farther into the room to show him the staircase, white with a wooden railing. She points to the room that they didn’t go in, the one that had been to the left of the den, and says, “That’s the kitchen. There’s a door that leads out onto the back porch when you walk in, and then another leads to the garage. Always feel free to get anything from the cabinets or fridge. It’s always stocked.”

John smiles at her hospitality and says, “Thank you.”

She beams back, impressed with John’s manners. She thinks that she might like having him around, then goes up the stairs. John follows her as she tells him, “Up here are Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s rooms. Yours is up here as well.” She points to on to the right as they reach the top of the stairs.

“That’s Sherlock’s room. He seems to be outside at the moment,” she said, smiling fondly. “He does rather enjoy the garden. He’s a bit difficult, but I think you’ll like him.” She was saying this merely to implant a subconscious thought into John’s head that he would, in fact, like Sherlock. She had no way of knowing whether John Watson would get along with her son. In fact, she very much hopes that this young man will because no one else seems to.

John does not know this.

Mrs. Holmes points to the left, exactly opposite of Sherlock’s room. “That’s Mycroft’s room. He’s in class right now. He’s on his final year of college, doing so well. He’s going to go into government.”

“Impressive,” John comments with a smile. Mrs. Holmes returns it warmly.

She points to a door directly in front of the top of the stairs, which they are still standing on, telling John that it’s the bathroom. Again, he nods.

She then walks around the left banister, a sharp turn, and says, “That will be your room for the summer. Feel free to fix it up however you like, though I must oppose painting or changing the wallpaper, and it goes without saying that I expect no damage to come of any of the furniture.”

“Yes, of course, ma’am,” John replies, realizing that Mrs. Holmes may be very kind, but it would be a great act of stupidity to cross her. He decides that he will try his best to never do so.

She smiles at him warmly again and nods, then leads him around to the right side of the staircase, showing yet another staircase, leading to the third and final floor. “Up there is the bedroom I share with Isaiah, along with the study and library. Please do not enter our bedroom unless we personally ask you to do so, or if it is an emergency. Leading just past there is the ladder to the attic. You may enter the library or the attic whenever you wish, so long as it doesn’t interfere with your job.”

“Yes, ma’am,” John repeats with a nod.

She smiles. “That’s all there is to see. How about you unpack your things and see if you can find Sherlock out in the garden? He’s a bit younger than you, but he’s very intelligent. You can stark work tomorrow.”

“That sounds fantastic, thank you Mrs. Holmes,” John smiles politely at her.

She waves her hand in the air as she says, “Please, call me Vivian.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

John then drags his suitcase and backpack into his bedroom. He had been a bit reluctant about staying in this house all summer, at first. But he applied for the job because he needed money for his parents and sister, and decided that it would be best to not have to pay for a cab every day anyway.

He didn’t bring much, but it’s all he has.

The room is fairly plain, but John likes plain. It’s a constant, for him. He finds comfort in it. With his sister being drunk all the time and his parents both jumping from one badly-paying job to another, he needs all the constants that he can get. Plain is one constant. School had been one until he graduated last week. He had desperately wanted college, even considered the military, but it would have been cruel to leave his family like that, and they didn’t have enough money for college without the military anyway.

John drops into the bed, which is very soft and shapes to his body. The royal blue duvet is also soft. This is a drastic change from his bed at home, for which he is grateful. The floor is also hardwood, the same very pretty cherry color. John had noted as Mrs. Holmes – Vivian – gave him a tour that copies of the red rug from the hallway had been on the floor in every room but the kitchen and his room.

With a sigh, John decides to unpack his clothes first. He doesn’t have much, but it is enough. He carefully folds them into the drawers of the dresser that sits directly across from the bed, to the right of the door.

While he is unpacking, John realizes that the windows on the wall adjacent to the door are actually doors, which must lead to a balcony. The curtains are a thin, lacey white cloth with drawstrings on either one, but neither is tied so as to cover up the entire glass.

John puts his last pair of cargo shorts into the bottom drawer and walks over to the doors but doesn’t open them, just pulls open the curtain and looks out.

He has a breathtaking view of the garden which he will be tending to for the summer. It really is beautiful. John has never been good with flower names, but he does recognize daisies, roses, sunflowers, and tulips by name. Others he has seen but never bothered to learn their names, but he does not need to know their names to see their beauty.

There are also several bird feeders of all kinds scattered around. A sidewalk splits it in two, and then at the very end of the very long garden is a white gazebo, making it a picture-perfect scene. John can even see little circles on the edges of the sidewalk which are obviously lights in the ground. The sidewalk goes off to the sides three times to provide a pathway between the flowers, but it is narrow enough that from a certain angle, it looks as if it isn’t there at all.

John is about to turn away to finish taking out the items he packed when he sees something black through the columns of the gazebo. He squints and leans forward until he determines that this must be Sherlock, the youngest son whom Vivian said he would get along with.

John hopes he will. He thinks it would be easier to be away from home if he has a friend here.

He finishes unpacking.

 

 

The garden is even more incredible from up close. The sun is still shining, causing the petals of the flowers to practically glow in the light. John smiles without thinking. Flowers cannot judge him or his family. Flowers cannot get drunk or lose their jobs. Flowers are a constant.

John thinks that he might even be happy to work with these beautiful plants.

From where he is standing, he can see into the backyard, can see the wooden patio looking out over the small orchard of about eight trees. John can tell that they are split between apples and peaches.

He continues down the long, narrow sidewalk with the intention of greeting Vivian’s son. However, when he reaches the gazebo and sits down on the left side, the boy on the right, he finds that he doesn’t know what to say.

He is too caught off guard by how impossible it is that he looks so much like his mother without looking much like her at all. He has curls so dark brown that they almost look black. They both share the high cheekbones and fair skin, but where Vivian’s skin looks softer, this boy’s looks like marble. Their noses are pointed slightly, looking almost identical, except Vivian’s is rounder at the tip. Vivian’s lips are thin and do not have much of a form, while her son’s lips are full and are a perfect image of a cupid’s bow.

John finds it slightly disturbing that he notices all of this.

He clears his throat. “You must be Sherlock. Your mother said you might be out here.”

The boy does not so much as acknowledge the fact that someone spoke to him. His eyes stay trained on the book he is reading.

John continues, “I’m John Watson. I’m, uh, the gardener.”

Still no response comes.

John clenches the left side of his jaw. “What’re you reading?”

The boy huffs out an irritated sigh, shuts his book, and turns to look at John with icy eyes. John notices, for some reason or another, that they are a very nice color of silver, except for the fact that if looks could kill, this one would do the trick.

“There must be _someone_ else that you can bother,” he says bitterly. “I suggest Mycroft.”

John is momentarily caught off-guard at the deepness of the boy’s voice. “Actually,” John says, “he’s not here right now. By default, I’m obligated to bother _you_.”

“Shouldn’t you be tending to the garden?” Sherlock replies coldly. “Hence, _gardener_.”

“I start work tomorrow,” John explains, though he feels as if this is not so much a conversation as a challenge. "Plus,” he adds, “if I started today, I wouldn’t have the pleasure of meeting you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “What a travesty that would be.” Sarcasm drips from his every syllable. John finds himself amused, despite himself.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “I very much love meeting the children of my boss, especially when those children are snarky and rude.”

“I am not a child.”

“You’re acting like one.”

“Why so harsh, Watson?” Sherlock asks. A smirk is definitely not forming on his lips.

“I’m simply being honest.” John sees the smirk and attempts to hold back his own.

“Careful with that,” Sherlock warns sarcastically. “I might also have to be honest.”

“And is this supposed to worry me?”

“The negative emotions generally don’t show until after I’ve finished.”

“Negative emotions.”

“Yes, including, but not limited to, anger, sadness, the urge to bash my head in with an ashtray.”

“I don’t see any ashtrays around at the moment.”

John means for this to be an invitation for him to be honest, because it seems that Sherlock Holmes being honest with him is more than just giving his first opinion. And even if that’s all it is, it can’t be that awful, seeing as they’ve only just met.

Sherlock recognizes the invitation and begins.

“Your sister is a drunk, since recently, though, not for a long time. She’s older than you, probably about twenty-one. Your parents keep switching from job to job. None of them pay well. They obviously disapprove of your sister’s drinking, yet they feel bad about it, so what little money they do get from their jobs still pay for some of her booze. She prefers vodka but will also take any form of whiskey that she can get her hands on. You’re here for the money obviously. I would go so far as to say you’re going to split what you make between getting your sister clean and go to college, most likely to study medicine of some sort. You considered military, but didn’t go through with it. You couldn’t leave your family like that. You have a few friends at school, make good grades, teacher’s pet; you have all the qualities of a model student. You got a few partial scholarship offers, but you didn’t accept because you don’t have the money for the uncovered parts, and for the same reason you didn’t go to the military.”

John squints at the boy sitting across from him. Sherlock prepares for the angry shouting and name-calling. It never comes.

Instead, it is replaced with this: “That’s . . . That’s kind of brilliant.”

Sherlock feels the urge to smile. He doesn’t. He looks at John curiously. “You think so?”

“Yes. That was extraordinary . . . quite . . . extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss of.”

Silver eyes meet blue ones for a moment before the both of them laugh. It has been a while since either of them has genuinely laughed. (John: because there is frankly nothing laughable about his situation.) (Sherlock: because he simply finds nothing amusing here.)

John’s eyes sparkle as he asks, “How’d you know?”

“I didn’t know, I deduced,” Sherlock replies swiftly.

“You deduced?”

“I collected facts about you when I saw you and came to a rational conclusion.”

John looks at him curiously. “And . . . You can just . . . do this easily?”

“It’s become easy,” Sherlock explains, not exactly sure why he’s doing so, but maybe it has to do with the fact that John doesn’t seem to hate him for calling him out on his drunk sister or on his enabling parents or on his lack of money, but instead is fascinated and that, to Sherlock, is fascinating, and he is treating this much like an experiment, and Mycroft has told him that people do not like to be tested on, but he can’t help it because this is something _new_ and he hasn’t seen _new_ in ages. “I merely exercise my brain. Though, to be fair, my brain is more advanced than most.”

John gives him a look that is almost taken-aback when he adds, “Don’t look like that, it’s just a fact, I can’t help it.”

John waits a moment, debating over whether or not to let that comment slide. In the end, he decides he will ignore it because he wants to know about how Sherlock deduced all those things about him.

The moment he asks, Sherlock launches into a detailed explanation, involving faint smells coming from John’s shirt and the way his fingers twitch and the state of his hair and shoes and other things that shouldn’t be connected, except Sherlock forces them to be, and the whole process is kind of beautiful.

This is when Sherlock decides that John is not the worst person Mummy could have chosen to be the new gardener.


	2. Chapter Two

John and Sherlock get along well out in the gazebo. John is further amazed by Sherlock’s deductions and Sherlock is further amazed by John’s amazement.

John finds that once Sherlock gets to talking about himself, he could talk for ages. John had asked if he was going to college or already in it. Sherlock had replied that no, there was no way he was going to college, because he was Sherlock Holmes and he didn’t need it, he could just create his own job and people would come to him, of course.

“I can’t decide if that’s crazy or brilliant,” John grins.

“I like to think they correspond well together,” Sherlock replies, a grin matching John’s forming on his lips.

“You’re probably right.”

“I usually am.”

“Watch it,” John warns with a playful smile, and they both laugh again. “So,” John says after a moment, “what’s this spectacular job you’re going to create?”

"A Consulting Detective,” Sherlock answers with ease.

“You’re going to have to elaborate.”

“When the police are out of their depth – which is always,” Sherlock explains with a pointed look, “they consult me.”

“But they wouldn’t consult amateurs,” John counters.

“You were a witness to my deductions,” Sherlock says, looking a bit offended at the very thought of being called an amateur. “Do you honestly think it would matter if I had a badge?”

John squints for a moment, actually thinking about whether or not Sherlock’s deductions would be that valuable, and he decides that yes, they probably would be. “Probably not.”

“What a coincidence, I’m right again,” Sherlock smirks playfully, which is new, because Sherlock is never playful, not since Redbeard in his pirate days, but John doesn’t need to know about those.

“You’re just getting lucky,” John jokes, pointing a finger.

Sherlock is about to retort, saying that no, he is not getting lucky, he is merely right and it just so happens that he is right a lot, but before he can get it out, Vivian Holmes opens the door to the house and calls for them.

Sherlock, John!” she says. “It’s time for dinner.”

“That’ll mean Mycroft’s home,” Sherlock mumbles under his breath, then to John quietly, “You’re lucky you met me first. Wouldn’t want you being friends with Mycroft.”

John can’t help but giggle a little. “And is that by your standards?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “And as we pointed out, I’m right very often.”

“Oh, come off it,” John laughs.

The two of them get up from their seats in the gazebo and follow Vivian into the house. John, only having walked through the manor twice total, is still learning the rooms, so he makes sure to keep up with the two Holmes’ strides, which are nearly identical.

John discovers that this dinner will be a part of the eighty-seven-percent of dinners that are seated at the table. The food, which smells glorious, is sitting in the center of the table. There is a pot of mashed potatoes, a pot of peas, and a tray with five perfectly-cooked pieces of salmon. John’s mouth waters at the sight.

“Go wash up and get drinks,” Vivian says, and Sherlock and John do just that.

This is when John encounters Mycroft for the first time.

Mycroft has the same uncanny ability to look like his mother without doing so at all. He has her hair, but the cheekbones and the skin color are off, and his eyes are a different shade of blue, somehow icier without looking gray, and he was, by far, taller than her.

But he has her grace with words as he speaks. “Ah, you must be the new gardener.”

John doesn’t like the way he says “gardener.” It makes him feel inferior. He endures. “Yes, John Watson. I’m assuming you’re Mycroft.”

With a single nod, Mycroft replies, “I see you’ve already met my brother.”

Mycroft didn’t have to use any tone other than normal to get his point across: Mycroft and Sherlock are not very fond of each other.

“Yes,” John says. For some reason, John is unsettled by Mycroft’s presence. He nods once, and then goes to the sink to wash his hands, which was what Mycroft had just finished doing. The man turns to the fridge to get his drink.

Sherlock murmurs to John, “Careful of your drink, he might poison it.”

John at least hopes Sherlock is joking and chuckles a little, but still keeps a watchful eye on his glass of ice water and makes it a point to sit at least one seat away from Mycroft, just in case.

Mr. Holmes is seated at the end of the table. John discovers that he looks nothing like he thought he would. He isn’t sure what he imagined, just that it was not that.

The man is around the same age as Vivian, but he is infinitely softer in comparison. He does not have steel eyes and pale skin. He has warm brown eyes and pinkish skin that actually suits him. His hair is black, which is obviously where Sherlock gets his darker hair, but it is cropped short, like John’s, and nothing at all like Sherlock’s curls.

Mr. Holmes smiles at John when he walks into the room. “Ah, John Watson!” he says with a smile. “Vivian has told me about you!”

John smiles and jokes a bit, “Good things I hope.”

“Yes, yes, very polite, she said,” Mr. Holmes nods, his smile still bright. “You’re getting along well with Sherlock, then?”

His tone is almost hopeful. It makes John curious. He doesn’t act on his curiosity. “Yes, sir; he was showing me his deductions.”

A certain type of smile forms on both his and his wife’s faces. It is almost worrisome, almost hopeful, almost apologetic.

John says before anyone else can jump in, “He’s incredible.”

The certain smile fades away and is replaced with a very bright one, a very pleased one. John does not see Sherlock’s hidden grin. Vivian was practically beaming. “Well, that’s lovely. I was quite hoping you and Sherlock would become friends.”

“Careful,” Mycroft pipes in then, “you might be signing up for another job.”

Sherlock glares and says with ice in his voice, “You might want to watch how much of that fish you eat, Mycroft. The diet doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Boys!” Vivian says in a commanding voice, one a mother uses when her children are embarrassing her in front of company.

John is certain he hears Sherlock mumble, “He started it.” He briefly wonders if he will be dealing with children while he works for the Holmes family, then decides, yes, probably, but what was wrong with that?

Dinner proceeds with only a few snide remarks from the brothers. Vivian and Mr. Holmes (John can’t bring himself to call him Isaiah) ask John about home a lot, and does he have any allergies, and does he get cold at night because they can turn down the air conditioner and does he have any medications and does he have any dislike of the violin because they can tell Sherlock to not play it so loudly (Sherlock grunts at this and John laughs).

He explains that home is doing aright; no, he doesn’t have any allergies; no, he should be just fine without messing with the air conditioner; no, he doesn’t have any medications; actually, he quite likes the violin and would love to hear Sherlock play sometime.

Sherlock’s eyes light up at the prospect, but he quickly shifts his expression back to indifference. John still sees it and thinks that Sherlock should not hide his emotions like that, but it isn’t his place, so he doesn’t say it. He quietly eats his salmon (“extremely delicious, thank you, Vivian”) and pretends to be a part of a conversation about Mycroft’s education.

He will graduate at the end of the summer, and he is already guaranteed a spot in the government, though he is not at liberty to tell which one because commoners aren’t supposed to know that kind of thing. John finds himself enjoying Sherlock’s snide comments, regretfully. He makes sure to not show it. Sherlock notices anyway and thinks that something is different about this John Watson, and he is going to figure it out (he can’t resist a puzzle, especially not one so tempting).

Mycroft announces that he needs to go to his room and study for an upcoming test when he finishes half of his salmon. John silently wonders if Sherlock’s comment about his diet actually affected him. He feels kind of awful now.

Mycroft is excused from the table. Mr. Holmes says that he should also get back to his study, and therefore dinner comes to an end. John offers to help clean the table, and Vivian gladly lets him.

John is a little surprised when Sherlock waits in the doorway until he’s finished. He comes back after scraping the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher and gives Sherlock a curious look. “Were you . . . needing something?”

Sherlock raises a single eyebrow. “Why would you assume that?”

“I figured you’d run off to play with a chemistry set somewhere,” John jokes with a lopsided grin.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be dull, John. I do not have a chemistry set.”

“Alright,” John says, throwing his hands up in surrender. “But really.”

Sherlock seems to stop for a moment, making eye contact. He doesn’t exactly know why he waited for John any more than John does. He simply shrugs. “It’s only polite.”

John grins. “From what I gathered, Mycroft is the polite one.”

“He has to be,” Sherlock rolls his eyes again. “People start wars over people as powerful as him.”

“He’s only in college,” John says, confused.

“Exactly,” Sherlock counters. “That’s what makes him so dangerous. He’s practically the entire British government.”

John doesn’t hide his confusion – and slight worry – at the thought of someone as young as Mycroft ruling all of Britain. (Well, not really ruling, but if he’s the British government, is there really any other word that fits?)

John finally shakes the thought and says, “No, but did you need something?”

“No,” Sherlock replies. “I was just . . . waiting.”

John eyes him curiously. A smile threatens to form on his lips. He refrains. “Alright then.”

“Alright.”

John nods, and after a moment, he says, “Well. I’m off to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Aren’t you here to work?” Sherlock comments with sarcastic innocence, but a smile is playing around the edges of his lips.

“Trying to get out of being around me already, are you?” John teases as he walks past Sherlock, up the stairs, and into his bedroom, not waiting for an answer.

Sherlock, at the bottom of the stairs, realizes that no, that’s not what he was trying to do at all.

 

John wakes up at nine o’clock in the morning to the smell of fresh biscuits and gravy and simply cannot suppress his smile. It reminds him of his grandmother, who had passed away last year. Every time he visited, she would make biscuits and gravy, without fail.

John’s mood could not possible be better.

He hurriedly changes into cargo shorts and a dark blue T-shirt and goes down the stairs, into the kitchen. Vivian is at the stove. She smiles when he walks in.

“Good morning!” she greets happily. “Breakfast will be ready in just a minute!”

John nods with a smile and gets a glass of water, taking it out into the dining room where he finds Sherlock already sitting.  
“  
Morning,” John smiles, taking the seat that he had last night at dinner, the one beside Sherlock. The boy in question doesn’t answer. His eyes are closed and his hands are beneath his chin as if he’s praying. John considers that a possibility, but then thinks that Sherlock doesn’t seem like the type to pray before a meal.

“You alright?” he asks cautiously, taking a sip of his water.

Sherlock’s eyes snap open. He looks directly at John and says nothing. After a moment, he shuts his eyes again, goes back to whatever he had been doing. John raises his eyebrows and shakes his head, electing to leave him alone. Going by the look of that glare, that is Sherlock’s plan as well.

Mycroft then comes down the stairs, dressed smartly for his age. John finds it a bit odd that he is wearing a three piece suit for a day at college, but does not comment on it. To be perfectly honest, John is a bit intimidated by him, and judging from Sherlock’s description of him, there is good reason.

“Good morning, John,” Mycroft smiles sweetly. “Sleep well?”

John still doesn’t like the tone of his voice; it’s as if it’s constantly condescending. Despite this, he smiles with a nod. “Yes, thank you, and yourself?”

“Oh, quite well,” Mycroft replies.

John finds that he has nothing else to say, nor anything he wants to say, so he takes another sip of his water.

Vivian enters with a pot of gravy and a tray of biscuits. She is still smiling. As she sets them both on the center of the table, she says, “Sherlock, we’ve discussed this, no mind palace at the table.”

John furrows his eyebrows in confusion. Mind palace?

Sherlock sighs dramatically and opens his eyes, placing his hands on the table in front of him. He doesn’t roll his eyes, but the sigh is an audible form of the action.

The table is quiet for a moment. Vivian says then, “Isaiah doesn’t usually eat breakfast. He’s not much of an eater at all, really.”

John nods to show his acknowledgement and puts food on the plate that was set before him.

Breakfast is continued quietly, the only sounds coming from the scraping of forks on plates. John makes a comment about how delicious it is. Vivian thanks him kindly. More quietness ensues.

Mycroft then rises from the table after an appropriate amount of time is spent and says, “Well, I must get to school. I’ll be home a bit late today. I have a tutoring session.”

“Alright, dear,” his mother replies. “Don’t forget your bag.”

“Of course not,” he smiles. “Goodbye Mummy, Sherlock.” He adds with a different smile, “John.”

John nods at him with a sarcastic expression on his face, and Mycroft is gone.

Only moments later, Sherlock rises from the table and leaves the room, going out through the kitchen. John waits for him to come back, but hears the slam of a door and realizes he went outside to the garden, which reminds him what he is actually here for.

Vivian sighs at the plate Sherlock left. With a smile at John, she says, “He doesn’t have the best social manners.”

“I’ll help with that,” he offers, pointing to the table, but she waves him off.

“No, thank you,” she says warmly. “You can go ahead and start on the garden. All that needs to be done today is the weeding and a bit of trimming, and watering them of course. All the tools are out in the garage.”

“Yes, ma’am,” John nods. He goes upstairs to brush his teeth and short hair and puts on his sneakers, trotting back down the stairs and into the garage. The trimming shears are up against the wall in the corner.

He grabs them and walks outside in the early morning sunlight.

The job seems simple enough, but he realizes exactly how many flowers there are and second guesses himself.

He sees Sherlock in the gazebo again and decides to start at that end.

Sherlock is reading the same book again. He always keeps a large amount of books in the garage. He does the most of his reading outside in the garden, but he predicts that his reading will not be as easy with  
John working outside.

He predicts correctly.

“Hey,” John greets, shears in his hands. Sherlock nods upward once to show that he heard but doesn’t say anything. John shrugs and begins trimming the very pretty white roses to the right of the gazebo.

John doesn’t want to be rude, but he is very curious about this “mind palace” that Vivian had mentioned. He waits a moment and then asks, “What was that thing you were doing at breakfast?”

Sherlock raises and eyebrow that John can’t see from behind him and sighs. “My mind palace.”

“Ah, yes,” John says, “I’m familiar with that.”

Sherlock’s head spins around. “You are?”

“No,” John deadpans. “That’s why I was asking.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, sounding rather deflated. He turns back around to his book. “It’s a memory technique. Theoretically, no one can forget anything unless they want to. It’s a series of rooms in my mind in which I keep useful information.”

John is intrigued. “And . . . it can be any room or place?”

“Yes.”

John fights the urge to giggle. “And yours is a palace.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. John cannot see the action but he senses it as he starts back on the bushes.

After about ten minutes, John tries again for conversation. “Is that the same book you were reading yesterday?”

Sherlock sounds annoyed when he answers, “Yes.”

John nods. He moves on to the red roses directly across from the white ones. “You never told me what it was.”

“No.”

“Why not?” John questions, then grins playfully. “Is it something embarrassing, like how to play the clarinet?”

“What’s so embarrassing about playing the clarinet?”

“Have you ever actually heard a clarinet?”

Sherlock laughs, despite trying to keep his face completely indifferent, and John joins in after a moment.

Their laughter is only fueled when Sherlock adds, “Mycroft plays the clarinet.”

John laughs more and says, “That makes him a hell of a lot less intimidating.”

“Best not let the government find out,” Sherlock jokes, still giggling, which is strange because Sherlock Holmes absolutely does not giggle, except he is.

John’s laugher dies off in a chuckle and he continues to trim the bushes.

After another few minutes, Sherlock says randomly, “It’s criminology.”

“What?”

“The book,” he explains. “It’s on criminology.”

“Oh.”

“Mycroft thinks I’m planning a murder of my own,” Sherlock continues with a roll of his eyes. “If he keeps it up, I’ll plan his.”

John lets out another high-pitched giggle and wipes his forehead. “I’m sensing some extreme sibling rivalry.”

“Mycroft is an insufferable git who thinks he’s better than everyone because he’s going into the government. He is currently on his seventh diet but he’s already cheating, and he has a girlfriend, who is more like a PA, as if he needs someone to stroke his already enormous ego.”

John nods upward slowly. “Alright, maybe a bit more than sibling rivalry.”

“Do you often get in arguments with your sister?” Sherlock asks, still looking down at his book.

“Harry and I’ve never really got on well,” John replies. He trims the bushes a little too closely and hopes that no one will notice. “Especially since she’s started drinking.”

“Yes, why?”

“Why?” John repeats.

“Why did she start drinking?”

John sighs and stands up straight. “She was having troubles with Clara, her girlfriend. Clara was really good for her. But they broke up and she just got really bad for a while.”

“She and Clara had a fight, she broke up with her, got depressed, started drinking,” Sherlock says with a nod, as if he’s filling John in instead of the other way around.

John nods and goes back to the flowers. It’s a sore spot for him. He had never before imagined Harry as a drinker. She had been so happy and carefree before. John sighs quietly to himself.

Sherlock hears the sigh and rolls his eyes, and says, as if he’s so completely bored and he’s reading from a terrible script, “It’s not your fault.”

John looks up, a confused expression on his face. Although he does feel a bit of guilt for letting Harry do it to herself, he says, “I never said it was.”

“You think it.”

John forces a chuckle. “So now you’re a mind reader.”

“Might as well be,” Sherlock says with an annoyed tone. “Everything is so clearly written out on everyone’s faces, and they get angry when I tell them what they’re clearly showing – as if it’s my fault that your wife is cheating on you with your sister and brother!”

John coughs to cover his laugh. “And you really just say these things out loud?”

“It keeps me from being bored.”

“And you’ll do anything to not be bored.”

“Precisely.”

John chuckles and shakes his head, going back to the flowers. “Ridiculous.”

“You don’t seem annoyed.”

“No, it’s bloody brilliant,” he admits. “A bit off-putting, but brilliant.”

Sherlock looks up and eyes John from his seat in the gazebo. John is not looking at him, which might be good considering the look in Sherlock’s eyes, something like confusion mixed with happiness. He says to himself, so that John can’t hear, “Oh, yes, definitely glad you met me first.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's short, I apologise, please forgive me. Also, I'm completely American, so if there's anything that stands out as odd in an English setting, please let me know. I appreciate everyone who reads this! Thank you!

John and Sherlock get along surprisingly well. Sherlock is only a little bit annoyed by not being able to read his book, versus being very annoyed. They chat about John’s friends at high school, and how he had just graduated, and Sherlock lets him say these things despite the fact that he already knows everything and he isn’t quite sure why it doesn’t bother him. 

Sherlock talks about his hatred for everything Mycroft touches or even thinks about touching, how he just gradated too even though he’s two years younger than John (“At first I tried to keep up the image that I was average to trick the teachers, but I got bored of that”), how he does a lot of experiments and John should help with one of them sometime and he isn’t quite sure why he invited John to help seeing as he never likes people around his experiments. 

John says with a grin, “I’d love to help with some of them.” 

“They’re typically dangerous,” Sherlock shrugs, as if it’s no big deal that if one of them goes wrong, the least damage it can do is completely take your eyebrows off, if they don’t miss and blind you. He doesn’t mention that last bit, just in case it might scare John away. 

John wipes his head again. He had finished trimming the plants earlier, and now he’s pulling up the weeds. Unfortunately, there is no tool for this apart from his hands, and he knows his back will be aching by dinner. He replies to Sherlock, “I figured you would have deduced that I like a little bit of danger.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock waves his hand in the air dismissively, “I did. That’s why I invited you. I never invite anyone.” 

John is oddly touched by this, but doesn’t dwell on it for too long. Sherlock probably just doesn’t have anyone to invite. “Well, Mr. Holmes, I truly am honored.” 

“Don’t call me Mr. Holmes.” 

“Bossy, Mr. Holmes?” John teases. 

Sherlock is about to threaten John that he will poison his toothpaste when Vivian walks out the garage door, holding a tray of lemonade and little sandwiches (John cannot help but notice the extreme cliché). “Sherlock, John, lunch!” 

Sherlock had previously expressed eating slowed him down, along with sleeping and drinking and other bodily necessities, so it is no surprise to John when he doesn’t move an inch at the sound of his mother’s voice. He simply stays on the bench of the gazebo, pretending to read his book when John knows for a fact that he hasn’t been reading for ten minutes. 

John smiles at her and gladly walks over. Luckily, she had also brought out hand sanitizer. John cleans his hands and takes the lemonade thirstily. 

Vivian frowns over at her son. “He really needs to eat. He’s going to be tall, he needs his strength.” 

“I can take it over to him,” John offers. 

Vivian smiles at him and says, “That would be lovely. See if you can get him to eat something.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he nods, and takes the tray carefully. She nods at him one more time in thanks and walks back inside. John goes the opposite direction down toward the gazebo, where Sherlock looks up from his book when he hears the door shut. 

“You are not going to make me eat,” he says firmly.

“Yes,” John replies, “I am.” 

He sits down beside Sherlock, placing the tray between them and picking up one of the little sandwiches. Sherlock takes the drink but does not so much as look at the sandwiches. Eating slows him down, and at any rate, finger sandwiches do not constitute as a dignified lunch. 

“Come on, Sherlock,” John says, drinking his lemonade. “Your mum says you’ll be tall, so you have to eat.” He gives Sherlock a pointed look and says, “You don’t want to end up shorter than me.” 

Sherlock glares over at John, but after a moment of debate, he rolls his eyes and takes a little sandwich. John grins and Sherlock says, “One.” 

“Three,” John proposes.

“Two.” 

John squints, but realizes he’s lucky to have gotten him to eat at all, and concedes. They both eat in companionable silence.

Sherlock wonders why he actually decided to eat the sandwich. It’s not as if he’s actually worried about being shorter than John, who he just met yesterday, who managed to get him into a conversation and get him to invite him along for an experiment, who managed to get him to eat something when normally the whole of London wouldn’t be able to. It’s strange. He doesn’t know what it is about this John Watson that’s so different, but there is something. 

Sherlock thinks for a minute that really, he doesn’t mind all that much. 

 

 

When John finishes weeding and watering the garden and Sherlock declares he’ll be taking his shower, John decides to check out the library and the attic before a shower of his own. He puts the water hose back on the holder and goes inside to wash his hands and face properly. When he’s finished, he walks up the first flight of stairs, turns to the right and walks up the next one. 

The second staircase leads him directly to a door that must be Mr. and Mrs. Holmes’ bedroom. On the opposite side of the little hallway is another door which is ajar, and inside John can see a wall covered in books. He walks inside and is greeted by the wonderful smell of paper and tea. 

John had always loved libraries. He had always wanted to go on adventures, but there were simply none to be had, wherever he was, so he relied on books from the library to take him to faraway places. He read about jungles and oceans and magic. 

As he grew older, he began reading crime novels, and every once in a while, a romance one. He likes those, but the adventure stories still captivate him most. He wonders if this library is all biographies and nonfiction and informational text. 

He starts on the wall to the left, right as he walks in. It seems as if they aren’t placed in alphabetical order, but they are placed by category. John chuckles and briefly wonders why Sherlock hasn’t fixed it, because he does not seem like someone who wants to waste time looking for a book when he could just put it in alphabetical order and find it easily. Then he also thinks that Sherlock probably has the location of each book memorized. 

As he continues down, following the wall, he discovers that there is plenty more than just informational texts. There are classics and children’s books and young adults books and plenty of the kind of fiction that sits somewhere in between. 

John sees books he has read (Harry Potter (although the third in the series is missing), The Catcher in the Rye, The Lord of the Rings) and books he hasn’t (Moby Dick, Lord of the Flies, The Count of Monte Cristo) and he suddenly gets the urge to spend the rest of his life in this very room and read every single book until he knows them verbatim. 

This is, by far, one of his least realistic thoughts he has ever had, but it’s comforting to know that after all that has happened to him, he still has his love of books. It is a constant. 

After looking around a bit more and making a short list of what he would like to read, John spots what must be the door to the attic on the ceiling. He jumps up and grabs the string hanging down to pull it open, revealing a metal ladder. 

As he enters the attic, he is greeted by a wave of humid air slightly hitting his face. The smell is musky, and John thinks he can almost smell the heat in the room, which is very large. It’s one big room that stretches across the entire manor, but it’s filled with cardboard boxes. It comforts John a little that even a family as rich (and odd) has a normal-looking attic. 

On the far end is a window with a bench carved into the wall. Outside the window is a view of the trees in the back yard, and just a bit of the edge of the garden can be seen. John decides that he likes it up here too. 

He turns to leave when he’s startled by the outline of a person in the shadows against the wall in front of him. He nearly shouts out when he recognizes it as Mycroft.

The oldest Holmes brother steps out with a condescending smile on his face. “Hello, John.”

John eyes him suspiciously. “I thought you were staying late, getting tutored or something.” 

Mycroft let out an emotionless scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous, John, I was scheduled to tutor a lower-classman. He didn’t show up. I don’t need tutoring.”

“Of course, how could I be so ignorant?” John replies sarcastically. 

“Indeed.” 

John looks at Mycroft incredulously. He decides that he doesn’t like him that much. He shakes his head in disbelief and says, “What is it you want, Mycroft?”

“I see you’ve taken an interest in Sherlock.” 

“And?”

“That’s not the intriguing part,” Mycroft continues. He furrows his eyebrows and lifts his head, squinting his eyes. “He seems to have also taken an interest in you.” 

John shrugs with a slightly annoyed expression. “Is it so odd for him to make a friend or two?”

“Yes.” 

John furrows his own eyebrows in confusion. He would’ve thought that Sherlock had plenty of friends, though he could see how his deductions would be off-putting. But still, it doesn’t take away from how amazing he is. 

“Sorry?” John asks, confused. “How d’you mean?” 

“He doesn’t have friends.”

“Everyone has friends.” 

“He doesn’t,” Mycroft says with a sense of finality. “But he seems to get along with you, which I find odd.” He pauses. “I worry about him. Constantly.”

John purses his lips and looks at Mycroft with raised eyebrows. “And why exactly are you telling me this?”

“I’m willing to offer you double your salary here,” Mycroft says, “in exchange . . .” 

“In exchange of what?” 

“Information.” 

John looks at him in even more disbelief than before. “You want me to spy on your brother for money.” 

“I assure you, everything will be confidential.” 

“I’m not interested.” 

Mycroft eyes him. “You’re very loyal, very quickly.” 

“No, I’m just not interested.” 

The two have a staring contest before Mycroft finally says, “Very well.” He turns to leave. “And John,” he adds, “best not mention this confrontation to Sherlock.” 

He leaves without another word, and John scoffs to himself. Of course, he will tell Sherlock. He likes the kid, and he won’t jeopardize their possible friendship. Who does Mycroft think he is? 

He says to himself with bitterness as he’s leaving, “I refuse to be manipulated.”


End file.
